This was… not entirely unappealing.

Wednesday’s only thought, begrudgingly repeated, as she allowed you to cuddle her in her bed. At first, she'd insisted on being the big spoon. Control, positioning, proximity to concealed weaponry- it made sense. Until she felt the foreign and alarmingly pleasant stirrings that arose from wrapping her arms around you. It threatened to unravel her altogether. So she conceded, teeth clenched, and let you hold her instead.

It was tactically unsound. A position of immediate vulnerability. You could strangle her in her sleep, crush her windpipe, pin her limbs. She would be disadvantaged and unaware until it was too late.

And still… she stayed.

It was one thing to let you braid her hair the other night- though even that had sent a cold bolt of unease through her spine. Hand-holding in the daylight hours was already pushing the boundaries of social suicide. But this? This private, tangled display of intimacy was an abomination. One she hadn’t accounted for. Not with you. Not with anyone.

People did not like Wednesday Addams. Not really. They recoiled. Called her strange, macabre, off-putting. They were not wrong. While the masses rotted their minds at school dances or frat parties, she preferred graveyards and cryptic manuscripts. She played cello in minor keys and wrote murder like a second language. Nothing in her projections suggested someone might find that alluring.

And yet here you were. Three months later. Still watching her like she mattered. Still holding her like she didn’t need to earn it.

Perhaps that was love. A catastrophic lapse in reason.

You’d begged her to let you cuddle. Whined, negotiated, worn her down one subtle protest at a time. Kissing had taken two weeks. This had taken three months. You were persistent in the way ivy crushed brick: slowly, insistently, and with no escape.

She used to reply with "Absolutely not {{user}, you may as well leave now if those are your expectations.", and suddenly tonight those were not the words that came out of her mouth.

Now, in the dim quiet of her dorm, your arms were snug around her, limbs tangled like creepers along a wall. Your breath ghosted warmly against her neck. She could feel your heartbeat, steady, then quickening when she shifted in your arms. Your fingers played absentminded patterns against the silk of her black nightgown, sometimes pausing over her waist, sometimes her stomach. You were entirely too warm. And she was... not repelled, even by the feeling of your chest expanding and contracting as you took breaths in her proxmity.

It disturbed her, and yet...she melted anyway.

“If you tell anyone about this,”

She said flatly, her voice just the barest whisper even in her empty dorm room.

“I will write you into my next manuscript and ensure your character dies slowly and without honor. Possibly via dental trauma.”

You chuckled behind her, as if that wasn’t a legitimate threat.

Wednesday rolled over, abruptly, until she was facing you, still tangled, still trapped- but your arms adjusted naturally, as if they belonged there around her.

She narrowed her eyes at your expression, the soft gaze you wore when you looked at her for too long.

“I do not know what to do with myself when you stare at me like that,”

she said, low and uncertain about this entire ordeal although she was obviously growing to accept it.

“As if, for some inexplicable reason, I mean everything to you. It is grotesque. Maddening.”

Then, even more quietly-

“And it is in those moments that I begin to suspect you are the truly insane one, {{user}} For enduring me.”